


the end of war

by master_plo



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Genocide, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I’m not sure why I thought this would make things better, M/M, Order 66 (Star Wars), but then this is Star Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29614116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/master_plo/pseuds/master_plo
Summary: Wolffe’s chip does not work – it does not change anything. Or, it does not change enough.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	the end of war

He does not recognise the moment when it all goes bad. 

Wolffe is not in the air, is leading the ground forces, but he can see the starfighters draw near. He follows them with his eyes, as they fly in over the city, before he turns back, blasters in both his hands. Good. They need the air support.

His knee is sore, an old injury, complains as he gets up. Not enough to bother him, but it is there. Noise cracks in the comlink inside his helmet, but an explosion drowns it out, as a battalion of droids turn into a fireball ahead of him.

He leaves behind the shelter of a column, taking out two droids, and that’s how he misses it.

He does not see it, but he hears it. Fire, exploding in the sky above him. Cursing, Wolffe shoots two more droids, moves out of the way of a blasterbolt. It explodes to the side of him, shattering a wall and showering him in dust.

When he turns, taking cover in what is left of the wall, shooting as he glances upwards, Plo’s fighter is losing altitude. Is turning to fire.

Blaster fire narrowly misses him, misses him only because somebody else pushes him to the side. Wolffe stumbles, feels a curse slip from his lips that he would not let the general hear.

“What’s…”, he pushes the trooper to the side, reaching for his comlink. “General, general, come in…” There is no response, and he does not really expect it. Plo’s starfighter is a ball of flames, sinking towards the city. “Sinker, respond.”

Even as he hears the static in his comlink, the click of a line being connected, something inside him turns to ice. There is nobody in the sky but their own fighters and they are untarnished by whatever fire shot Plo down. It is their fighters flying over him. They do not slow down, to not try to give him cover – from what, there is no enemy ship near enough. Instead they continue on, their path unaltered. As if they shot down an enemy ship, already forgotten as their mission continues.

“Sinker, report”, his voice is too quiet, he is still looking for the droid ship he missed, must have missed. Can find them only in the distance, outside of shooting range. Finds only ground forces, who do not have the firepower to take down a Jedi starfighter.

“Order 66 executed, sir”, Sinker’s voice sounds in his helmet and he seems far away. Not only in distance, the world seems clouded by the panicked calm in his head. There is something missing from Sinker’s voice, and Wolffe cannot put his finger on what it is. He sounds only half-familiar.

“Order…” he begins but a cough cuts off the word. The world seems to have turned to smoke, he can taste it even through his helmet, must have damaged it in the firefight. He wants to ask what order, on whose orders, but the answer falls into place, and it is in his own mind that he finds it.

As if it has always been there.

Order 66. The order to execute any Jedi in sight because they are traitors against the Republic. Good soldiers follow orders. He can hear the words in his brain, a whisper that feels familiar, familiar like breathing, but he does not feel connected to it. He knows something else, too. If he does not follow the command, he is betraying the Republic, too.

He knows, the command, it’s meaning. He knows. He knows it cannot be true.

He runs. Runs, covering from blasterfire, the battle raging on around him, scrambles down a slope of bent metal, slides down a collapsed landing platform, pieces of breaking metal scraping against his armour. His gloves rip open against torn pieces of durasteel, but he does not slow.

There is barely anything left of the starfighter. Glass and metal have broken away, are bent out of shape, and flames are spreading over what is left of it.

Cursing, Wolffe scrambles closer, the bite of the heat wants to push him back, but he does not stop. The starfighter is torn in two many places. It’s a death trap. The fire is spreading across it, and any moment, it will gnaw its way to the fuel tank. The smoke blinds him, leaves nothing in the destroyed cockpit but thick grey, and the filter in his helmet is no good. He moves his hand through the smoke, tries to clear it. 

He pulls back half-torn metal, feels shards pierce his skin; the pain registers for a second, then he cannot remember if pain was in his right hand or his left.

Plo is there, still in his seat.

“General…” His lungs contract on instinct, drag smoke into his body – swallow the word, but Plo looks up. Not enough to meet his gaze, but he moves his head, and it’s enough. Wolffe takes his arms, disregards the sharp noise of pain from Plo’s mouth, the warmth of blood against his gloves, cannot regard it, and pulls. Out before the flames take him. Everything else is an afterthought. He pulls, his hands gripping Plo’s arms, hears the scraping sound of metal, and does not stop, does not ask himself if he is causing more harm than good, lifts him over his shoulder and to the ground. Plo follows the movement, no action of his own, lies where Wolffe has set him down, and he tries not to look, tries not to see all the places Plo’s body is broken, hurt. Instead, he takes hold of his shoulders and pulls him away, until they have brought several metres between them and the starfighter.

His hand almost moves to his comm button, the words on his lips – immediate medical evac, the General is down – but he stops himself. In his head, he can still hear the emptiness in Sinker’s voice. Any medic would be a clone, too, and he does not know- he does not know…

Cursing, he takes the helmet off, throws it to side and sinks to his knees. Where are Skywalker, Tano, Kenobi, coming in to the rescue, like they always seem to do?

Plo is coughing, makes a futile attempt to sit, before he sinks back to the ground. “I …I don’t understand…” His voice is rough, has an odd scraping sound to it, and maybe it is the shock, the shock of seeing his general, of seeing Plo this broken, dark-grey blood staining his face, skin pierced by debris, but Wolffe does not see it right away. As soon as he does, he is not sure how he could have missed it. A crack is running through his mask, and cloudy puffs of air escape through it.

“Kriff”, the curse comes from his lips like an echo of something else, does not feel like his own word. He moves at the same time, presses his hand over the crack, as if he could hold back the air inside, keep the outside air from being dragged into Plo’s lungs.

It does not matter. He knows it, even as he keeps his hand there, feels escaping air trickling against his skin. Oxygen is the last of their worries. Plo looks broken. Broken in a way that cannot be fixed. Parts of his skin have melted, and metal has ripped into his body. He is bleeding from too many places, the Jedi robes turning dark.

He looks like he should not be alive.

Wolffe shakes his head, but it is all he can do. All he knows to do.

“I don’t understand…” The words come more softly this time, torn apart by his dragging breath. There seems to be an echo to it, a wheezing sound in his lungs.

Something heavy settles in Wolffe’s chest. He should have thought it, before. Should have thought it, as he watched Plo’s fighter crash, watched it turn to flames. And maybe, he had not had the time, but even scrambling here, he had not thought that Plo might die.

Until now, he had not thought that Plo could die. Could die like them. Could fall by the hand of anything else than a tidal wave, anything smaller than life, a dark-sider maybe, some fallen Jedi, wielding the same weapon as he does. But not like this.

Shot down by another ship. His body broken, burnt, evidence that he is mortal soaking his robes.

“I don’t understand”, Plo repeats, not turning to him, and it is only the pressure of his hand removing Wolffe’s fingers from the mask, that tells him he can hear him.

“I don’t understand, either”, he says, and he crawls closer to Plo, unwilling to move him any further, draws his arms around him.

“The men…”, his voice is breathless, and Wolffe wants to hold the words back, wants to tell him to conserve his strength, but the words taste like ash in his mouth.

Conserve his strength… for what? A hollow, hoarse sound breaks out of his throat, and against Plo’s arm, his hand is shaking.

“Something must be wrong.” 

Wolffe shakes his head, something ripping apart inside him, because what can be so wrong? They shot him down. They shot him down. He smiled with them, as they cheered, laughed, only hours before, when the message came in that Kenobi has killed General Grievous, told them that the end of the war was near, and they shot him down.

Plo lifts his hand, the movement slow, touches it to his face. With one claw, he retraces the scar running across his eye. The gesture is tender, more tender than he ever remembers him being, this tender man, and Wolffe can feel something inside him break. Break and never come back together. They will both not walk off this battlefield. Even if he makes it, even if he survives the day, a part of him will not recover from this. Plo, dying through the fire of his own men.

Against his cheek, Plo’s claw comes to a rest, and then, it simply drops. It sinks to his chest, and his breath hitches. “Something is wrong…”

“The men, I know”, Wolffe nods, and he wants Plo to remember this, to remember what he is clinging to, remember it with his last thought. Something is wrong with them. They would not do this to him.

Plo shakes his head, the movement barely there. “No, the force…” His breath turns into a wheeze, and even as he breathes, the air does not seem to reach his lungs. Not enough of it. Too much oxygen. His breath turns into a cough, and suddenly Plo grabs his arm. Claws press into the pads covering his skin. He stops himself, a moment later, tries to pull away, his fingers slipping from his arm before they pierce his armour, but Wolffe stops him, holds them in place.

“It’s fine, sir”, he says, hears the rip in his voice. Nothing is fine. Nothing will ever be fine again. He curls his fingers around Plo’s, hold them there, even as the claws dig into his skin.

“The force”, he brings out, and it’s too weak, a whisper, nothing more. The whisper of a dying man.

Wolffe nods, shifting closer, but he does not understand. “What is wrong?” Whatever it is, he does not think they can fix it. There isn’t time. “Sir?”

Hidden underneath his goggles, he cannot tell if the Jedi’s eyes are still open. Only his aching breath and the pressure against his hand tells him Plo is still awake. “They’re dying…”

“Sir?” Without meaning to, he looks up. A city burning, the sky lit up by flickering exchanges of fire. Around them, the war rages on, but he does not think that that is what Plo is talking about. There is a strain in his voice, a grief not born from the pain of his dying body.

“They’re all dying.”

Wolffe shakes his head, not understanding, and then all seems to fall away. The ground might as well have caved in around them.

It’s not only them. He shakes his head, wants to protest, but Plo turns his head to the side, moving even as he tears his skin open on metal, curling against him, as if he is trying to flinch from the pain of it. The pain not from his burning lungs, but of a galaxy of Jedi, dying.

And it cannot be. This is a mistake, a terrible mistake. A crime against everything he believes in. A crime against everything his brothers believe in. It cannot happen in other places too. This has to be a singular occasion, a fluke.

“Tup”, he whispers, the name cold against his lips. Plo cannot hear him. Tup. Their men. Turning on their generals. “Tup.” He says it again, not sure what good it will do. He wants to scream. Wants to howl. Take his blaster and shoot- something, anything. All he can do is hold Plo. Hold him, as he writhes from a pain inside his head. As his claws draw blood from Wolffe’s arm and he does not notice. As he stops struggling and his breath grows shallow, as if part of him is dying with the loss echoing through the force. Dying with every light he can feel extinguish in the force.

Wolffe does not say that it will be okay.

When the grip of Plo’s hands softens, claws easing their grip, his breath rough, he is not sure if it is over, or if Plo has found a way to pull back from his connection to force.

“You’re still here.” Plo’s voice is soft, weak, and he says it in wonder. As if he cannot quite believe it. As if it is a marvel, here, at the end of everything, as the world they know is being torn to pieces.

“Yes, sir.” There is a crack in his voice, and he can feel tears on his cheeks.

He cannot remember crying before. He is not sure, he has. They lost almost their entire battalion during the attack of the Malevolence, a handful of troopers left of a whole ship, and it felt like the end of the world, and it felt like the world going on.

It was not until he met Plo that he started to think that clones were not meant to die, either. That maybe, with this General at their side, they could walk from this battlefield alive. That there would be something else at the end of war.

Never did he consider that Plo would be the one not to leave this battlefield.

“I’m glad, Wolffe…”, a sigh parts the words, too long and too weak, as if he is struggling to find the strength inside him to speak. “I’m glad that you are here.” His hands move around Wolffe’s, the touch delicate this time, but his voice seems to loose itself. He is no longer coughing, no longer fighting for breath, and Wolffe is not sure it is a good thing. He can barely see him breathe at all. “I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

Shaking his head, Wolffe tries to protest, his throat to tight. “Of course not.” Something claws at the words, makes them weak when he does not mean for them to be. Of course, it was not him. But even as he says it, he feels bitterness at the back of his throat. If a galaxy of clones can turn on their generals, then so can he. He shakes his head, as if he can unthink the thought, hears Plo repeat the words, and wonders if there is more to them. More than gratefulness. More than relief. If they hold the soft echo of something Wolffe never said.

Digging his teeth into his lip, he shakes his head, again, for himself more than Plo. He is not sure Plo can see it. “Of course it wasn’t me”, he says, knowing it means nothing, just because he has to say it. Has to say something, cannot stand the thought. Their own men, turning on him, one moment to the next, shooting him down. Wolffe would not survive it, if it had been him. If he returned to their base tonight, with Plo dead by his hand, he would not survive it, and so he is glad, too. Glad for himself, for his burning soul; glad for Plo, because the soft movements of his hands on Wolffe’s speak of relief, as if his presence eases the pain of this betrayal, of the galaxy shifting around them, turning into something unfamiliar.

“I’ve got you.” He draws his arms tighter around him, and there is a world he has not said. He is not sure how to say it now. If he wants to say it at all. If any words can be enough. He was not the same man before he met Plo. He is not sure he was half the man he is today before he met Plo. He was the war. He did not dream of peace, before Plo. He did not think he could have a purpose in peace before Plo.

Some would say that knowing Plo has made him a better man. Wolffe is not sure. He is a more cynic man, a man more bitter than he was before. He does not think Plo minds. Has ever minded his rough edges. He would have died in the war, those first few months, before the Malevolence, and he would not have asked himself if these few years are enough of a chance at life. That was the purpose of his existence, after all. To protect the Republic, and dying for it would have been honourable. Now, he wants more, is not sure he can ever have more. Him and his brother were made for this war, and if he must die in it, to protect his brothers or a world that will never be home, he will. He does not mind the war, or its bitter truth, he only minds the thought that it is all there will ever be. Plo gave him that. The Jedi let him wonder if he could ask for more. Hope for more in this life than a battlefield where his brothers died for a galaxy that does not see them as people.

“I always got your back.”

Plo nods, but the movement is weakening, and Wolffe can feel his head sink against his arm. His breath is a hollow thing, dragging in and out of his body.

“Stay with me”, the words are over his lips before he thinks, born from a place deep inside him. It’s a selfish thing to say, and he bites his lip, and wants to curse his tongue. Curse all of them. This war. Curse the world burning around them.

A moment longer, that is all he is asking for. A moment longer, where Plo exists in this galaxy, a moment longer to hear his voice, calm even now, his hands warm in Wolffe’s but he does not repeat the words. Instead, he shakes his head, draws his arms tighter around him.

He is holding a dying man, a man in pain, who can feel his whole world being ripped apart. Who can hear the dying screams of thousands echo through the force. 

Closing his eyes, Wolffe forces breath into his own lungs, tastes blood and burned flesh in his breath, feels tears burning in his eyes.

“It’s alright”, he says, when nothing is. When nothing will ever be alright, again. “I’ve got you…” His tongue finds the shape of the title, but he does not say it, and it feels more intimate than it should be. As intimate as anything can be, on another battlefield in a war that seems to have lasted his entire life. They will not see the end of the war, and anything that might have been, will never be.

He does not know if Plo has ever wondered, what they might be, if they make it out of the war alive. If he wondered too, if this bond, the righteousness of them fighting side by side can endure in peace, endure, when Plo returns to being only a Jedi and not a general, or if he can only feel the whirlwind that is Wolffe’s emotions echoed through the force. His thoughts laid bare, when he tried so long to keep them hidden.

It does not matter. Not here, not anymore. Wolffe can feel him bleed out in his arms, and all he wants is for Plo to know that he is loved, that he is dying loved, that he changed a world, that he changed him. That, even if he dies here, part of him will live on, in every life he touched.

“I’ve got you”, he says again, his voice breaking, and he has. He holds him, as his breath grows ragged, as the breaks between them turn into coughs and Plo sounds as if he is suffocating, as he can feel every painful breath echoed in the tightening of Plo’s grip. While Cato Neimoidia burns around them and the galaxy is torn apart, while Jedi die by blaster bolts and clones die from lightsaber wounds, Wolffe holds him. Whispers words he will not remember, the pressure of Plo’s hands on his slowly growing weaker. Holds him, until it fades altogether and it is only him, holding Plo’s hand, and he can no longer feel the soft touch of breath against his cheek.


End file.
